Cruel Justice (DI Lorne Simpkins (Book one)) (2 page)

"I seem to remember it being a one-sided discussion that began with,
'I've been offered promotion' and ended with 'I've accepted it'
.
What choice did I have in the matter? None, zilch, nothing, fuck all. Some discussion
that
turned out to be."

"That's not fair. What was I supposed to do? Turn down the promotion? Do you realise how the force would have reacted to that? I would've remained a sergeant for the rest of my career," Lorne said, scrambling to her feet ready for further confrontation.

"At least Charlie would know who her mother was," he snapped back, childishly.

"I don't see you complaining when you're spending my hard earned money," she mumbled.

"Oh, it's
your
money is it?" he retaliated, his eyes wide with anger.

"You know I didn't mean that," she said frustrated, beating a clenched hand against her thigh. "I appreciate what you've given up to look after Charlie, but that was a decision we made
together
years ago. Or are you going to throw that one at me next?"

The long drawn out silence was deafening.

"Perhaps I didn't bank on Charlie being so difficult to bring up," he stated quietly.

Guilt wrapped around her like a tight bandage. She kicked herself for not appreciating his loneliness sooner. "Baby, I'm so sorry …" she walked towards him.

It shocked her when he turned his back and stood by the window. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder but he shrugged it off.

"I don't
want
or
need
your sympathy, Lorne," he said, pulling back the curtain. He placed his hands on the windowsill and gazed out.

"What do you want then?"

After a few minutes silence he mumbled pitifully, "I want my fucking life back."

She closed her eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry, Tom, I just don't understand what you mean by that?
You
have a life.
We
have a life.
We
have a very good life in fact—"

"No, you're the one with a life. I'm the one who's merely existing. You leave the house at eight and get back around seven-thirty, when you don't bother doing any overtime, that is. While 'good old Tom' looks after our child's needs and cleans the house. Christ, do you have any idea how bloody mundane that is, five days a week?" he said, his voice rising along with the colour in his cheeks.

Lorne could imagine the same conversation going on in thousands of households all over the country, except it was probably the wives complaining to the husband when he came home from a long day at work.

She blew out a breath she had been holding in, and asked, "How long have you felt like this?"

"Months. Only you've been too busy to notice."

Henry, their Border Collie was sitting by the kitchen door, whimpering at their raised voices and Lorne couldn't help being distracted for a moment.

"Come here, boy, it's okay." She patted his head reassuringly. "Go lie in your bed."

The dog trotted back to the kitchen, his head hung low. Lorne had bought him as a pup, five years before, as a present for her husband. Tom had named him after his favourite footballer Thierry Henry. But the dog seemed to regard Lorne as his master, not Tom, which in itself had caused problems between them.

"Huh, even the dog gets more attention than me."

"Grow up, Tom." As soon as the words left her lips she regretted saying them.

Tom turned to face her and grabbed her by the shoulders, "So
that's
what you really think of me? That I've failed to grow up along the way? Right, you can bloody well put your resignation in at work tomorrow, because this time next week lady, I'm going back to work. Do you hear me, Lorne? Then we'll see how long it takes you to crack looking after our angelic daughter day in day out. Just remember one thing, it's taken
twelve
years
for my sanity to diminish. We'll see how long you last, shall we?"

His grip on her shoulders had intensified during his speech and he hadn't noticed her wincing in pain.

"Tom, you're hurting me."

"You don't know the meaning of the word," he said, through gritted teeth, refusing to loosen his grip.

Oh God, he's lost it.

She tried to shrug his hands off, but his grip tightened. Despite crying out for him to stop, he refused to let go. He was like a crazed man and she knew of only one way to stop him. In one swift movement her knee made contact with his groin, a slight nudge, or so she'd thought, just enough force to make him let go. To her amazement he dropped to the floor and writhed in agony.

"Tom, I didn't mean to do it so hard. Please, let me help you up." She bent down to try and comfort him.

"Get away from me you, crazy bitch." He flung out an arm and his clenched fist caught her just above the eye.

She flew across the room and landed in a heap on the cushions. Henry ran to her and licked the blood trickling from her brow.

"It's okay, boy, go back to your bed," she told him, stroking his head, but the dog seemed to sense more trouble ahead and refused to leave her side. He sat down beside her and eyed Tom warily. Lorne feared what would happen if Tom laid another hand on her. It was then she noticed her mobile vibrating on the coffee table by the sofa.

Here we go.
Lorne thought, as she struggled against the softness of the cushions to retrieve her phone. She felt bone tired, weary beyond words, and it showed in her voice when she answered the phone.

"Hello, DI Simpkins."

"Um, sorry to disturb you, ma'am. A body's been discovered on your patch and we wondered if —" the girl on the switchboard said.

"Give me the details," Lorne said, as Tom staggered to his feet and headed towards the kitchen. Henry growled as he passed, but Lorne tugged his collar to chastise him.

"The details are a bit sketchy at the moment, ma'am. The body was found in Chelling Forest, it appears to be a few weeks old."

"Great, protective masks at the ready when I get there then," she muttered drolly.

"I'll take that as an affirmative then, ma'am?"

"Yes, I'll attend. Have you contacted Detective Sergeant Childs yet?"

"My colleague's on the other line to him now. She's giving me the thumbs-up, ma'am. He's en route."

"Bang goes yet another romantic evening," Lorne complained half-heartedly, pretending everything was as it should be at home.

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am," the controller sympathised.

Lorne wasn't sorry though, anything but. "I'll be there ASAP." She flipped her phone shut, sighed heavily and ruffled Henry's head. Then she told him to stay while she went in search of her pissed off and pissed up husband.

Tom was sitting at the kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a glass, and a half-empty bottle of whisky.

Leaning against the doorframe, anger making her blood boil she tucked her hair behind her ears and said, "Tom I've got to go to work. We'll have to finish our discussion later."

He ignored her and continued to stare at his glass.

At that moment, she hated him for the damage he was causing their marriage. After a quick change of clothes, she gathered her phone, coat and handbag and left the house, her heart heavy.

Chapter Two

Chelling Forest was around half an hour's drive from Lorne's home. The vile weather meant that thankfully, the roads were quiet.

The storm had dispersed, but the rain was less considerate and still came down in torrents. Lorne tutted, fearing the elements would hamper their investigation. Any possible footprints would be washed away long before she got there.

Arriving at the location at 10:20p.m, Lorne saw several emergency vehicles already at the scene. A
Sky News
cameraman and reporter were set-up broadcasting a live report. Experience told Lorne that before long the area would be flooded with other reporters, both print and TV, hungrier for the grisly story than a pack of starving wolves. Mercifully, the area had been cordoned off with blue and white crime tape.

She opened the glove compartment and hunted for a plaster. After wetting her finger with spittle, she wiped the trickle of blood from her brow then applied the plaster. She moved to the trunk and swapped her low-heeled court shoes for wellies. Pulling on her light waterproof jacket to protect her navy pinstriped suit, she set off in search of her team.

"Inspector Simpson, can you tell us what you've found?" the reporter shouted.

"Evening, Bill, see you're first on the scene as usual. When I'm less pressed for time, perhaps we can have a chat about how you manage to get your information so quickly. And, just so you get your facts straight this time, the name is DI Simpkins, okay?"

"Oops, sorry, didn't mean to cause offence. Are we looking at a murder enquiry?"

The reporter had the decency to look embarrassed, if only for a few seconds

"Give me a break, Bill, I've only just arrived. As soon as we have any information, you'll be the first to know. You and the other gathering news teams, that is," she added with a wry smile.

The small rivers of mud squelched underfoot as she plodded through the forest. She'd already spotted her partner's car amongst the parked vehicles, which made her feel a little easier. She knew in her absence Pete Childs would be asking all the right questions.

"Evening, ma'am. Foul evening in more ways than one." A uniformed officer, halfway up the track, acknowledged her.

She nodded in agreement and continued along the muddy pathway.

Her head pounded with every step she took.
How has my marriage got in such a state?
She knew Tom hadn't meant to strike her, but there was no getting away from the anger she'd seen in his eyes.
Is that my fault too
?

As she dodged another puddle, her thoughts turned to a few years before when she used to bring Charlie and Henry to this very wood. Running innocently, playing hide and seek between the huge oak trees.

After tonight's incident, she'd think twice before coming anywhere near this place again, even in broad daylight.
Christ, what if Henry had dug up the body and Charlie had been the first to discover it?
She shuddered at the thought, it didn't bear thinking about.

A couple more minutes of trudging through mud and sopping wet leaves and she finally reached the scene.

The Scene of Crime Officers had erected a marquee, protecting the body from the rain seeping through the gaps in the branches overhead.

Pete Childs approached her. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you I walked into a door, would you?"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" he said incredulously.

"It was an
accident
. You're concern is duly noted but leave it alone, Pete."

"You're kidding me? Some bloody accident when a man's fist connects with his wife's face. When we've finished here I'm going round to sort out your old man."

Lorne stepped forward and rubbed her hand up his arm. "That's sweet of you, Pete, but I'm afraid I provoked him. I can handle Tom. In fact, if it hadn't been for my police combat training, it wouldn't have happened in the first place. Right, what have we got here?" She swiftly changed the subject as she pulled on a pair of white throwaway overalls and put plastic shoes over her feet.

With a defeated shake of the head, Pete apprised her of the situation and informed her that the two teenagers, who'd literally stumbled across the headless corpse, were being questioned down at the station.

The only significant conclusion the team had managed to gather so far was that the corpse was that of a woman.

The putrid smell of rotting flesh hit them as soon as they entered the tent. Pete coughed and gagged. It still amazed Lorne how after seventeen years on the force, her partner hadn't grown accustomed to the fetid odour emitted from dead bodies.

Lorne groaned when she saw who the attending pathologist was. They'd had more than a few unsavoury contretemps in the past. Jacques Arnaud had a bigger ego than Mont Blanc. Lorne and Pete stood alongside the Home Office Pathologist, who appeared to be transfixed by the body lying on the ground at his feet. His thumb and forefinger were placed studiously on either side of his chin.

"What've we got, Doc?" Lorne asked the greying forty-year-old, who was rumoured to be a descendant of the French aristocracy.

His sexy French accent and good looks had most of her colleagues drooling over him. Lorne, however, remained unimpressed, as she'd been on the receiving end of his sharp tongue and French arrogance far too often.

She waited patiently for his reply.

After a while the doctor needlessly informed her, "I'm thinking, if you don't mind, Inspector."

"About what, exactly, Dr?" Lorne persisted sardonically, her blood boiling at his tone.

"The case, of course. It's a strange one," he said.

"In what way?" Lorne asked, fighting to keep the tedium from her voice.
He's such a bloody wind-up merchant, not at all like his predecessor, Dr Thomas, who had always bent over backwards to help out the officer in charge.
Word had it that no one at the station liked working with Arnaud. But his results more than made up for his crap attitude. Arnaud was considered the best in his field with ground-breaking developments in DNA to his name.

"I suspect the victim has been dead for approximately one month," he stated, thoughtfully, circling the corpse.

"And?" Lorne prompted.

"The crime was
not
committed here. At some point, the body was moved."

"Didn't you say that the girl kicked the body as she stumbled over it?" Lorne asked Pete.

"Yeah, that's right, she —"

Arnaud, his nostrils flaring, interrupted her partner.

"I mean physically moved, not just disturbed by a mere kick. The killer probably thought the body would likely be discovered at another site, therefore he or she decided to move it. It wouldn't be the first time I've seen that happen. A mistake that in the end will prove to be his or her downfall."